Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-7

by William Bernhardt

  BEN CAUGHT GORDO at his apartment. From the looks of him, he had just awakened, although it was almost noon. Come to think of it, Ben recalled, Gordo had been drinking pretty heavily during the poker game; he was probably suffering the aftereffects. His hair was a mess, his chin was stubbly, and he was wearing boxer shorts and a Metallica T-shirt.

  “Benji, what’re you doing here?” he said, showing Ben through the door. Whether he’d been asleep or merely comatose, he didn’t seem particularly disturbed by Ben’s arrival. “Come to return to the scene of your poker Waterloo?”

  “Actually, I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.” Ben ambled around the apartment, again admiring the quality furnishings and tasteful decorations. Under an end table, he spotted a stack of books he hadn’t seen the night before. They were all Elisabeth Kübler-Ross titles: On Death and Dying, Living with Death and Dying, Death: The Final Stage of Growth, The Wheel of Life: A Memoir of Living and Dying. All had bookmarks jammed in them. “Mind if I sit?”

  “ ’Course not. What’s up?”

  Ben cleared a place for himself on the sofa. “I wanted to talk to you about the murder.”

  Gordo sprawled out in a big overstuffed chair and propped his feet up on the hassock. “Why me in particular?”

  “I’m talking to everyone who had access to the stage the night of the murder. And that means every member of the band.”

  “Not just the band,” Gordo corrected. “Don’t forget the lovely Ms. Weiskopf, our stage manager. She was there, too.”

  A good point, Ben thought. He ought to have a little chat with Diane, too.

  “What’s your interest in this, anyway, Kincaid?”

  “I’m trying to prevent Earl from being arrested, and then convicted, for this murder.”

  Gordo slapped his hands together. “Damn! That’s right. Scat was spreading the rumor that you’re a lawyer. Say it ain’t so, Joe.”

  “It’s so,” Ben said dryly.

  “No shittin’? Damn!” He slapped his hands again. “And here we all thought you were just some white piano player who didn’t know what to do with himself. And it turns out you were just slummin’!”

  “I was not slumming,” Ben said emphatically. “I quit practicing law because I wanted to concentrate on music. But Earl needs help.”

  “I guess that’s right. I heard the cops just about hauled his carcass to the pokey yesterday.”

  “Twice. And they’ll be back for a third try. So your help would be appreciated. Did you see the man with the rug?”

  “No way. I would’ve said something if I had.”

  Ben watched his eyes carefully. This wasn’t a poker game, but he still thought he might learn something. Especially since he was not at all sure he was getting the straight scoop. “Did you see anyone?”

  “No one who wasn’t supposed to be there. Earl, Scat, Diane. And you, of course.” His eyes narrowed comically. “You know, you’ve always seemed like a suspicious character, Benji.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Not tellin’ anyone what you really are and all. What’re you tryin’ to hide?”

  Ben ignored him. “Did you see the body? Or anything that in retrospect might have been a body?”

  Gordo thought for a moment. “Can’t say that I did.” He peered toward the kitchen. “Say, would you like some cereal? I’ve got some Froot Loops.”

  “Thanks, I already ate.” He plowed ahead: “It seems to me whoever killed that woman went to a lot of trouble to frame Earl. You know any reason why anyone would want Earl put away for a long time? Maybe forever?”

  Gordo thought for a moment. “You know, any man lives long enough, he’s likely to pick up some enemies.”

  “I need more to go on than that.”

  “You know much about him and Scat?”

  “No.”

  “Well, neither do I. But I know they go a long ways back. Twenty, thirty years. And sometimes when they’re talking, I get the definite impression that there’s some history there.”

  Ben knew what Gordo meant, but it still wasn’t very helpful. “If there was some serious bad blood between them, why would Earl hire Scat to play in his club?”

  Gordo shook his head. “I don’t know, man. People do strange things.”

  Gordo the philosopher. “Well, I’ll talk to Denny, too. Maybe he knows something you don’t. Do you know where he lives?”

  A goofy grin spread across Gordo’s face. “I know where he lives, man, but I don’t think you wanna go there.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Gordo scribbled an address on a scrap of paper. “I’ll let you find out for yourself.”

  Ben took the paper and shoved it into his pocket. “I don’t suppose you know of any grudge Denny might have against Earl.”

  “Well, he doesn’t pay us what we’re worth.”

  “No one does. I doubt if that qualifies as a motive.”

  “Hard for me to imagine, man. Denny is a gentle guy. Very into harmony. Peace. Staying in tune with nature.” Again the grin. “I get the impression you think one of your band buddies is behind this killing.”

  “I don’t think anything,” Ben answered. “I’m just checking out everyone who had access to that stage, including you. You weren’t by any chance involved with this death, were you?”

  “I’m involved with death on an intimate, daily basis,” Gordo said, settling back into his chair. “But not this one in particular.”

  Ben glanced again at the pile of death and dying materials. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “I’m part of the movement, man.”

  “Which one?”

  “The death-awareness movement.”

  “I didn’t realize there was any lack of awareness of death.”

  “Not just that it exists. We’re tryin’ to help people understand what it really is. Do you know much about what happens to us after we die, Ben?”

  “I have a friend who believes in angels.”

  Gordo shook his head. “Not religious fantasies. The real thing. We’re tryin’ to help people understand what death truly is. To break people away from their childish cliché notions—death as a horror to be dreaded. We want people to understand that death is a natural part of life. That it’s not an ending, but a transition.”

  “Like graduating from college?”

  “Well, in a way. Problem is, people are all wrapped up in these antiquated ideas they’ve gotten from the media or the medical community. The cure-oriented, interventionalist, life-prolonging regime.”

  “You’re against cures and life prolongation?”

  “After a point, yes. We’re defying the natural order. Putting off what was meant to be.” He gave Ben a long look. “I gather you find these ideas revolutionary? That’s because you’ve been brainwashed by the establishment. These ideas are not new, and they didn’t originate with me. You’ve heard of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, haven’t you?”

  “Right. Five stages of dying.”

  “That was the start. In subsequent works, she went well beyond those early ideas. In the movement, she’s considered the Queen of Death.”

  “Lucky her.”

  “She’s written volumes on this subject. Slowly but surely she’s transforming the world. There are over a hundred thousand death and dying college courses taught every year. These ideas have gained broad acceptance among thanatologists and other death professionals.”

  “Death professionals?”

  “Hospice workers, clergymen, psychiatrists, doctors, nurses.” He paused. “I gather from your attitude you’ve never done any serious thinking about death.”

  “It’s not my idea of a fun Saturday night, no.”

  “You should. Take some of these books. You’ll be astounded at how widespread the movement is. Millions of people all over the world have joined.” He pulled a few volumes off a shelf. “Kübler-Ross established a nationwide chain of death and dying centers—they’re called Shanti Nilaya. There’s
also the Exit Society, which distributes home suicide guides. There’s the Conscious Dying movement, which motivates people to devote their lives to death awareness. They open Death Centers to help bring people to the movement. And there’s another group that’s trying to initiate two-way traffic with the afterlife.”

  “Two-way traffic?”

  “Kind of a courier service. They recruit people who are dying to carry messages to those who have already passed on. And of course there are various reincarnation and past-life groups, although that’s really a different cup of tea.” He pulled a brochure out of a drawer. “Here’s a group promoting near-death experiences. You know what they are?”

  “Well, my mother gave me Saved by the Light for Christmas.”

  Gordo snorted. “This is nothing like that. This is the real thing. You don’t go back in time to your childhood or meet Jesus or any of that rot. What would be the point of going backwards? Near death gives you a peek at the world to come. You must’ve seen some of the critical articles that have been written on the subject.”

  “Well, I’ve seen a few National Enquirer headlines.”

  He handed Ben the brochure. “I haven’t done it, but they say it’ll turn your head forever. Make you understand death as an altered state of consciousness. Kind of like the ultimate acid trip.”

  Ben thumbed through the brochure. “Tune in, turn on, drop dead.”

  Gordo laughed. “Something like that.”

  “So your theory is sort of, do go gentle into that good night. And be quick about it.”

  “Hey, that’s pretty good. Did you think of that yourself?”

  “Me and Dylan Thomas.” Ben frowned. “Gordo, you’re even younger than I am. How did you ever get wrapped up in this death movement?”

  Gordo slowly brought his hands together and steepled his fingers. “I would expect you to keep this to yourself.”

  “If it relates to this case, I can’t promise I won’t use it in court. If it doesn’t relate, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  Gordo bobbed his head from side to side, as if mentally weighing whether those assurances were good enough. Evidently he decided they were. “I have Addison’s disease,” he said finally. “Do you know what that is?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “It’s what JFK had. Causes a drying up of the joints. It can be treated with cortisone but …” He paused. “It’s painful at times. There are treatments now, but—my doctors say it’s gonna kill me, eventually.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ben said softly.

  “I was diagnosed when I was seventeen. So you see, death and I have been constant companions for a good long while.”

  Ben shifted awkwardly in his chair. This was the last direction on earth he would have expected this interview to take. “I can see how you might be … interested in the subject.”

  “More than interested. I was looking for hope. Assurances.”

  “People have always looked for hope,” Ben said. “The promise of an afterlife. That’s what faith is all about. But this death movement you’re describing …” He paused, casting his eyes across the piles of materials. “This goes beyond the promise and anticipation of an afterlife. This is more like a … sentimentalization of death. A worship of death, even.”

  Gordo pulled a well-worn magazine off his shelf. “This is an interview Kübler-Ross did some years ago.” He thumbed rapidly through the slick pages. “Listen to this. According to the Queen, ‘People after death become complete again. The blind can see, the deaf can hear, cripples are no longer crippled after all their vital signs have ceased to exist.’ ” He grabbed a nearby book. “Here’s what she says in her latest work. ‘Death is a wonderful and positive experience … When the time is right, we can let go of our bodies and we will be free of pain, free of fears and worries—free as a very beautiful butterfly, returning home to God.’ ”

  “So death becomes the ultimate panacea.”

  Gordo’s eyelids fluttered as he settled back into his chair. “It’s a beautiful thought, isn’t it?”

  “Well, actually, no.” Ben knew he shouldn’t argue; this wouldn’t advance his investigation. But he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t you see that sentiments like hers in effect encourage people to kill themselves? No wonder suicide rates are at an all-time high, and euthanasia is becoming downright trendy. People should be encouraged to make the most of this life, no matter what hand they’re dealt, rather than just anticipating some supposed miracle to come after they’re dead and buried.”

  “The truth is, Ben, you’ve been brainwashed by conventionality.”

  “The truth is, Gordo, no one really knows what, if anything, happens to us after we die. This death and dying stuff doesn’t have any more scientific basis than astrology or spoon-bending.” Ben bit down on his lower lip. He knew he wasn’t handling this very well. “Gordo, I’m sorry to hear you have a serious disease. But a lot of people who learned that they might not have a full-length life have used that knowledge to drive themselves to work harder and accomplish more. Kennedy, for example. But this death and dying crap pushes people in just the opposite direction. Instead of urging them to accomplish more, it urges them to accomplish less. Don’t make the most of your days. End it now. Make the transition.”

  Gordo shook his head. “You just don’t understand, Ben. But you will in time. Everyone will, in time. Either before the transition, or after. Death claims us all.”

  True enough, Ben thought as he rose from the sofa and prepared to leave. Death had certainly claimed a victim here. The only problem was, the victim wasn’t dead.

  Chapter 26

  BEN TURNED OFF Cherry Street and maneuvered to an alleyway behind the first row of street-front buildings. He found an area where the tallgrass had been plowed under; it was being used as a makeshift parking lot.

  He parked his van, then headed back toward the stores and offices. It took him only a few moments to find the sign directing him to Theatre Tulsa. He found a backstage door and entered.

  There was a woman standing near the door. The costume designer, Ben guessed, judging from the disorganized array of thimbles and colored threads and needles. She directed him to the back of the stage. Ben wove his way through the hubbub of actors and stagehands and crewpersons, all darting in different directions at the same time. Soon he saw a familiar crown of yellow spikes poking over the top of a stage flat.

  She was hammering away, utterly oblivious to the chaos surrounding her.

  “So this is where you unwind,” Ben said.

  Diane glanced up, then returned her attention to her hammering. “This is where I make a living,” she replied. “You don’t think I can live off what Earl pays me, do you?”

  “Probably not,” Ben agreed. He crouched down. She was nailing the base of a vertical beam—part of an office set, he guessed—to the flat. “But I wouldn’t have guessed you were involved in stagecraft. A poker professional, a stage manager, and a carpenter. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “It’s all just hammer and nails, basically. And the occasional splash of paint. My dad had a workshop in the garage. He loved carpentry—loved it far more than selling insurance, which was how he spent most of his life. Till he died. Anyway, he showed me how to do all this stuff. It’s easy, really, once you know how. Nothing to get excited about.”

  “You must do it well. The woman on the phone told me you’ve been here for six seasons.”

  “It’s a great group. Everything about their productions is excellent, except the budget. They need someone who can get the job done without spending a lot of money.” She smiled. “I can fill that bill. I don’t do anything brilliant. They just need someone to make decisions. That’s me.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  She laid down her hammer. “Such flattery. Ben, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to get in my pants.”

  Ben’s face suddenly turned crim
son.

  She grinned. “But since I do know better, you must want something else.”

  “Well, it isn’t that I want something—”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I wanted to talk to you. That’s all. In private.”

  “So you are trying to get in my pants.”

  “No! I just—”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “Ben, you are so fun to play with.” She straightened up and sat on the stage with crossed legs. “So what is it you’re so anxious to discuss?”

  “Well, the murder. That night. Earl.”

  “Right. I heard you were representing him.” She placed a finger against a cheek. “Personally, I wasn’t that surprised when I heard you were a lawyer. I’d always figured you had an ugly secret buried in your past. I just didn’t realize how ugly it was.”

  “You were at the club the night the body was found,” Ben said, moving briskly along. “And I remember you asked me to clear the stage while I was practicing. That was just a few minutes before the man with the rug showed up. Did you see him?”

  She shook her head. “If I did, I didn’t notice. But I tend to think I would’ve noticed, because I get pretty protective about that stage when we’re close to showtime. So I probably didn’t see him.”

  “It was barely half an hour before the club opened. I’m surprised someone other than me didn’t see him.”

  “I’m not. That was the ideal time to come. Earlier, the club would be closed, or the band would be rehearsing. Later, the crowd would have started to gather. But he caught us after rehearsal, after the front doors were unlocked, but before any patrons had arrived. Perfect.”

  It was perfect, Ben agreed. Almost too perfect. It was one more reason to believe the most likely suspect was someone who worked at the club. Someone who knew. Or someone working with someone who knew.

  “I don’t suppose you saw that corpse up on the stage light.”

  “Not before you did.”

  “Or any evidence that it was up there?”

  “Ben, I’m the stage manager. Do you think that if I knew there was a corpse dangling over my pianist I would have just ignored it?”